


The King's Speech

by BloodMagic



Series: Dragon Age: Fluff [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodMagic/pseuds/BloodMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember when Alistair took the throne of Ferelden and a non-human-noble Warden wasn't allowed to marry him and there was a super angsty break-up scene that shattered your heart and taught you never to love again? Ever wondered how well that would go over long-term?<br/>I did, and I now regret ever having laid eyes on Dragon Age.<br/>WARNING: I wrote this little thing between 12-2 am and edited it while listening to Fall Out Boy. Excuse me while I crawl back into my trashcan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Speech

“And be sure to put the blue ones in the front!” Alistair called out to the retreating servant's back. The servant wheeled, bowed nervously with a 'yes, sir, of course', and practically ran off, away from His Dread Majesty.

Alistair sank into the chair behind his desk and rubbed his eyes. Maker's breath, but one would _think_ that five years of planning this festival would make it easier, not harder. Yet every year, there was some new challenge that threatened his plans. He was starting to wonder if this celebration wasn't more work than actually fighting the Blight had been.

He pulled his hand away from his eyes and went back to the list. The special cakes had been commissioned, the flowers ordered. The musicians he hired were practicing in the courtyard below his office. The extra tables for the feast had not yet arrived, but that was nowhere near his greatest concern.

No, his  _greatest_ concern was the half-written speech next to his to-do list.

Every year, Alistair wrote a speech. Never a long speech; half of Ferelden didn't show up to the annual Blightfair to listen to their foolish king ramble on like a dullard. They came to feast and dance and watch puppet shows reenacting the Battle of Denerim and the slaying of the archdemon.

Still, it  _was_ customary for the King to say a  _few_ words, and he hated the idea of saying the exact same thing from year to year. Not when there was so many things he  _could_ say, and so many things he  _wanted_ to say.

This year was different, though. This year he was having trouble writing his speech. Try as he might, Alistair had no idea what to say. Should he talk about how proud he was of his resilient people for fighting back and surviving the Blight? Should he mention his old mentor Duncan, who taught him how to be a Grey Warden?

Every time Alistair sat down to write this speech, his mind always wandered first to  _her_ : Surana. She was an elf, and a mage at that, but once upon a time she was Alistair's best friend, his only fellow Grey Warden in Ferelden. Every year he would ask himself 'what would she like to hear?' and tried to write his little speech around that.

Every year it got harder to answer that question. 'What would she like to hear?' Alistair had no idea. It was so much easier in the beginning. He knew her heart then, and it was easy to write to that. But that was a long, long time ago. Every year she arrived in Denerim later, sometimes only just in time for the festivities. Every year she departed sooner. Every year she changed a little, became quieter and harder to read. Alistair would know her face or her voice anywhere, but her heart was barely recognizable.

What would she like to hear? Alistair leaned back and dropped his hand into his palm. Maker save him, he didn't know.

“Your Majesty? Sir?” the voice of one of his valets sounded from beyond his office door. Alistair lifted his head, shifted in his seat, tried to appear 'kingly'.

“Come in,” he ordered, and the valet complied.

“Sir, you wanted to know when the Hero of Ferelden arrived. She's here, sir.”

Now? The day before the opening ceremony? She was early.

“The Hero's arrived and the King's holed up in here instead of downstairs to greet her? Scandalous,” Alistair smiled at his own glibness. He stood from his desk and followed the valet downstairs to the entrance hall.

True enough, there she was, he noticed instantly when the doors opened and he was able to see inside the hall. Her back was to him, but still he knew her. Her dusk-colored robes hugged the slim curves of her elven frame with a gentle sheen from the nearby torchlight. It seemed a lifetime ago, but once he had known those curves intimately. He had not forgotten them, would never forget them. Nor would he ever forget the long, dark hair that now ran down her back in a single thick braid. Memories came back to him: sitting with her in camp around the fire, watching mesmerized as her skilled fingers twisted her hair into those braids of hers; gently unweaving them with his own, less skilled fingers when he kissed her in her tent.

Alistair pushed those thoughts out of his mind as forcefully as he could. That was years ago. This was now. He had long ago relinquished the right to think about her like that.

The valet or someone must have announced his presence, because she turned to face him. Maker, but she was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her nose was covered in freckles from spending so much time outside in the sun, and her cheeks glowed pink from the same, but she looked healthy, bright. Her large hazel eyes shone with a sharp intelligence that never seemed to slow down or run off track. The only concession to time that her face had made was a small wrinkle at the outer corner of each eye, the barest beginnings of crow's feet.

For five years he had greeted her in this very entrance hall, welcomed her back after her long absences, and every year, just like writing his speeches it got harder to know what to say.

She spared him the embarrassment of saying the wrong thing. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” she greeted. Her lips made a thin smile as she spoke, but it was gone by the time she dipped into a small curtsy.

“How many times do I have to tell you you don't have to call me that?” he responded on instinct. It was so weird to hear _her_ , of all people, call him by his royal title. If only for the sake of what they _used_ to have, he always hoped that one of these years she would slip up and call him by his name. “Anyway, you're here early,” he added with a grin.

Surana didn't return the gesture. “The trip was smoother than I expected. You and yours have been getting the roads clearer and flatter every year.”

“Me and mine? Aren't you still Fereldan, too?” His tone was light enough but if she had been looking at his eyes then she might have caught the hurt there.

But she wasn't looking. In fact, she seemed to be looking everywhere  _except_ into his eyes. That stung, but not quite as much as her words: “I'm a Warden first. You know how it is.”

Oh yes, he knew. He knew her devotion to the Wardens all too well. She would go to the end of the known world for them, and she had. Anything to keep her away from Ferelden but once a year. That she came back even that often was a miracle.

Another servant stepped into the hall, bowed deeply and informed Surana that her room was prepared for her.

“Yes, you must be tired from all that traveling,” Alistair stammered quickly, eager to end the awkward conversation. “Go, rest, freshen up. I should... return to my duties anyway.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Good afternoon,” she replied with a solemn bow of her head. She turned and followed the servant to her room.

Alistair went the opposite direction and returned to his office. A long, frustrated sigh escaped him and he had to stop himself from banging his fist against the desk or bookshelf. How had they come to this? She was so formal with him now, so distant. Just as her eyes refused to meet his, her heart was everywhere but here. It had always been that way.

No, not always, he remembered with a sad smile. Once upon a time, they were in love. Once, she spoke his name with a genuine smile on her lips. Once, her passion for him was as powerful and unrestrained as a river's rapids. Once, she would not have hesitated to open her arms and her heart to him.

Then he became king. In his foolishness and his flailing attempt to gain the respect of the banns, he turned away from the love of his life. Because she was an elf, because she was a mage, because she was a Warden, it didn't matter anymore which of those reasons was foremost in his or his courtiers' thoughts. He had tried to make up for it by showering her with all the credit for the archdemon's death, by naming her the Hero of Ferelden and honoring her with accolades and festivals and working to improve Denerim's alienage conditions so elves might be held in higher respect, but the damage he had done to her personally would never be repaired. He broke her heart. Nothing he did now or ever would make up for that. Not that he would stop trying.

Alistair sent a withering gaze toward the sheet of paper containing the scratched-out notes for his speech.

What would she like to hear? He could not be sure, but he knew what he wanted to  _say_ , whether or not she would hear it: I'm sorry.

 

Ensconced in her own chambers, alone at last, Surana's sigh echoed Alistair's own. She had survived her yearly encounter with him, and that alone was cause for celebration.

She was more than willing to come back to Denerim once a year for the Blightfair. The people of Ferelden loved her and she loved seeing each year how much they had rebuilt their country and city. They made her proud to call herself Fereldan even if, under other circumstances, they would never have noticed her existence.

What Surana was less excited about was the prospect of returning to the palace year after year. His Majesty had insisted upon these arrangements; it would not do for the Hero of Ferelden to have anything less than the finest accommodations the throne could offer, he had said at the time. It would be rude for her to refuse that offer, and yet she was very nearly to the point where she would prefer being called 'rude' over having to face him again. The playful tone of his voice when he spoke through one of his iconic grins, and the way he still ran his hand through his hair whenever he was nervous that he was saying the wrong thing, it was nothing short of torture.

The very sight of him never failed to take her back to those days when it felt like just the two of them against the world. When she would be sitting by the campfire and suddenly he was there behind her, his arms around her waist, pressing kisses and whispered 'I love you's into her hair. When they lay together in her tent, limbs draped with haphazard abandon, enjoying the comfortable silence between them. All of a sudden he would break into that grin of his and whisper a joke into her ear. No matter what she was thinking about before that, she would, without fail, burst into a loud, even vulgar laugh that shook her entire body.

Remembering those times sent her into a bitter, tear-choked laughter now. Remembering those times also made her remember how it all came crashing down.

She tried so hard to hide her sorrow and her anger when he told her that they could no longer be together. She tried not to say out loud that she felt used and betrayed. Worst of all, she fully understood  _exactly_ why he was leaving her. She wasn't blind; she knew what she was, and what the banns and teyrns thought of her. Surana had endeavored with Arl Eamon to put Alistair on that throne because they both loved him and believed in his ability to rule the country well. She would not gamble his success, the future success of all Ferelden, against her own personal feelings.

So when he left her, she didn't even fight him. She never cried in his presence, though cry into her own pillow she most certainly did. She never, not once, begged him or tried to bargain for a place in his bed if not beside his throne. And after the archdemon lay slain at her feet and her former lover offered her whatever boon she would ask of him, up to and including the world on an Orlesian platter, she asked for nothing at all. Truth be told, she just wanted to get away, to run as far away as fast as she could and never look back. With the exception of these festivals, she got what she wanted.

Now what she wanted was for His Majesty to quit pretending that he was happy to see her when she came back. Maybe if he were colder toward her, she could finally move on. Maybe if he would just get married to some human noble or other already, she could finally be satisfied that whatever existed between them was really gone forever.

But this void between holding out hope and wanting to get away was killing her.

Whenever she came to visit, the palace always assigned a pair of servants to attend to her needs. Surana summoned them and charged one with drawing her a hot bath and the other with procuring a bottle of Antivan brandy. She handed that one a sovereign and told her to buy the bottle from the market if there was none to be found in His Majesty's extensive cellars.

There was nothing she could do, either about him or her feelings, but once a year she could drown it all out, if only for a night.

Two or three hours later – Surana had stopped counting – she was just about done with her bath and she had gone through a glass and a half of brandy. She knew better than to drink heavily while sitting in one of the palace's deep tubs; she was trying to drown her feelings, not herself. That, and Antivan brandy was so strong to the taste that it was impossible to drink quickly even if there was no bathtub to worry about.

Still, she was just tipsy enough that her head felt pleasantly warm, and the fact that she had achieved this state without having to touch ale was a victory in and of itself. Surana never did acquire a taste for ale, despite its being the single most prevalent drink in every tavern in Thedas. One nice thing about abandoning the road and coming back to civilization was that ale was no longer the default whenever someone asked her if she wanted a drink.

Speaking of wanting a drink, it was really time to get out of the tub. Her towel was hanging on a peg that she could just reach from where she sat. She gave it a tug and wrapped it around her torso as she stood. She scooped up her bottle and glass and returned to her bedroom where one of her attendants had laid out an overly fancy set of pajamas.

When was the last time she had worn pajamas? The road afforded her few luxuries, and entirely separate sets of clothing for travel and sleep was something she had given up on along with fresh milk and understanding Orlesian haircuts. Smiling at the softness of its fabric, Surana pulled the tunic over her head. She would sleep  _much_ better in this than in her robes, even if it  _was_ almost long enough on her small elven frame to be a robe by itself.

“Lady Surana?” one of her attendants called out to her. “Um, this is for you?”

At her beckoning, the attendant entered her bedroom and handed her a piece of paper folded in half.

“What's this?” she asked, but the attendant just shrugged and wore a bewildered expression.

Surana opened the paper to see two lines hastily penned.  _I can't write this speech. What is it you want to hear??!_

The note had no signature, but even in its hastiness it was a hand she recognized. A far greater mystery would be what in the world he meant by it.

Maybe it was her own desperation to salvage something from this whole mess, or maybe it was the brandy, but she resolved to answer the note. For better or worse, she would have it out with him.

She pulled the trousers of her pajamas over her legs and threw on a dressing gown over that. Her attendant pointed her in the direction of the king's office.

There was light glowing under the door when she got there. Without knocking, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Alistair had been in and out of his desk all afternoon, trying to focus on his speech in between seeing to all the other preparations. He had no idea what made him write that note to Surana, much less have it delivered to her, but even after he had sent it out he had no way of anticipating that she would actually answer it. In person, no less.

He looked up when he heard the door open, and he was about ready to yell at someone for interrupting his work, but then he saw her. She was wearing pajamas that were too big for her – they were made to human measurements, after all – and her hair was wavy and loose around her shoulders, and she looked every bit as confused as he felt when he first realized he had actually sent his note.

At first Surana didn't say a word, just walked up to the desk and dropped the note on top of his other papers. Alistair looked from her to the note then back again.

“I see you got my message,” he observed. He noted that at least she was looking at his face now. See? He was already making progress with her.

“Care to explain what it means?” she prompted. “For example, what speech?”

Alistair pulled three sheets of paper out from under the note. They were mostly black with ink, a jumbled combination of words and jagged lines crossed through words and doodles of a mabari eating words.

“This is what I have so far. For my speech. Tomorrow? You know, the festival? I always give a speech...” He laid the pages back down on the desk. “I... I don't know what to say this year.”

Surana looked stunned. Never mind 'looked'; she  _was_ stunned. Since when did anything leave him speechless? She had actually taken a physical step back before she realized she'd done it.

“And what about the other part? The 'what do you want to hear' part?”

Alistair's low, self-deprecating chuckle filled the room next to the crackle of logs in the fireplace. His hand moved to one of the three pages in particular.

“I've never told you this,” he started. “But I always thought about you when I wrote them before. I always wanted to write them for you. So everyone else could know how wonderful you are. So they'd love you like...” _Like I do_ , he wanted to say, but didn't have the guts.

Before he could stop her, Surana's hands moved to the three pages and scooped them up. Alistair made a noise of protest that might have been intended as a “Hey!” but it died in his throat and he figured it would be easier just to let her read.

Two of the pages were standard speech-making fare. 'The Hero of Ferelden' this and 'combined teamwork of all the peoples of this land' that. Surana set those aside.

The third one was full of phrases aimed directly at her, not just  _about_ her. They were things Alistair always wanted to say, but never had the time or the words or the courage.

~~_I'm sorry_ ~~

~~_why do you keep leaving?_ ~~

~~_I'm so, so sorry_ ~~

~~_do you think if I call her beautiful in front of everyone it would be too obvious?_ ~~

~~_I should have married you when I had the chance and public opinion be damned_ ~~ (this line was struck out twice)

~~_All I ever really wanted_ ~~

~~_Maker I'm so sorry_ ~~

~~_Why can't I do anything right_ ~~

~~_whatever it takes_ ~~ (this line was also struck out twice)

~~_who am I kidding_ ~~

~~_Should I get another rose? I can do that. I'm the king you know._ ~~

~~_Give up, A. She's not coming back_ ~~

~~_But I always loved you._ ~~

Surana bit her lip and put the page down. She had seen enough. Before her, Alistair had his head in his hands and was pointedly looking down, away from her.

“Is all this true?” she asked, and was surprised to hear how weak and broken her own voice sounded. He must have noticed as well, because he looked up and met her eyes.

“All of it.”

“And, what? You never had any intention of saying any of this to my face?” she demanded.

Alistair looked away. “I don't deserve to say any of it,” he muttered. He looked back at her. “You deserve to hear it all and more, but I don't have the right to say it.”

“No one else is going to,” she countered.

With cheeks flushed red from a combination of embarrassment and frustration, Alistair rose from his chair. “What do you want me to say?” he demanded, his voice rising. “I can't read your mind, alright? Just tell me what you want!”

“I want you to be honest with me!” she cried, her voice rising to match his. “Stop hiding behind excuses like 'I don't deserve to say' something.” She picked up that third page again, but her grab for it was too forceful and it crumpled in her hand. “Are these really true? Are these what you want to say to me? I can't read your mind either. What is it _you_ want, Alistair?”

It was the first time he had heard her say his name since before the archdemon was killed. It was the first time since then that she had spoken his name at all, whether or not he was there to hear it. Even with her angry tone, his name on her lips was the sweetest thing he had heard in a long time.

He walked around his desk until he stood before her directly. She didn't back away from him, not even when he cupped her face in one of his hands. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. He stood only a few inches from her, but she barely heard him, he was so quiet. Lucky for her, he was quick to repeat those words. “I'm sorry,” he said again as he drew her close. His lips brushed the spot where her cheekbone met her ear as he said it again. “I'm sorry.”

She felt something wet against the side of her face. Somewhere in that apology he had begun to cry. Without thinking about it, she felt her hands rise and her arms tighten around his waist. That was all the encouragement he needed.

“I never, _never_ should've let you go,” he was saying into her hair.

“I know why you did it.” She was trying to sound comforting, but Alistair shook his head and she felt his muscles tighten even through the combined layers of all their clothing.

“No, no, don't be _understanding_. You should be angry with me. You never deserved what I did to you. Please, just be angry with me for a minute here.”

“It's been five years,” she reminded him gently. “The anger's more than run its course by now.”

“But you _were_ angry,” he confirmed. He _needed_ to know that she had been angry. Anger meant passion. The angrier she was when he left her, the more she must have loved him before then, he reasoned. It was foolish and irrational, but the thought of her loving him enough to hate him was more comforting than his memory of her bearing her pain silently and stoically.

“Of course I was angry. Angry, sad, hurt, all of it. That's why I left.”

His arms tightened around her. His lips were leaving searing lines of kisses around her jaw. She turned her head so one of those kisses would catch her mouth instead. Once she had him, her hands trailed up from his waist, slithering up between their two bodies until she had both arms around his neck. He tasted and felt exactly the way she remembered. One of his thumbs moved against her cheek and it took a moment before she realized that he had wiped away her own tears. Strange, but she didn't remember them falling.

“I missed you,” he murmured against her lips. “I never wanted to drive you away.”

“Alistair...” Surana began, but she wasn't sure what to say. She wanted to tell him to quit apologizing but she couldn't think of how to say the words without sounding harsher than she meant. Alistair didn't mind. He was just happy to hear her say his name again. He gave a small moan almost like a whimper before he kissed her again. This time was harder, more frantic, searching, but for what, who could know? Surana felt warmth blossoming in her abdomen, a warmth she hadn't known in a long time. It moved like fire through her veins until she felt like she would burst out of her own skin. It had been so long since she felt this way that she had no idea of what to do with herself, other than breathe hard through her nose while her mouth was too busy to be bothered with such things. She raked her fingers through his dark blond hair and gasped when he slipped one hand under the edge of her dressing gown and cupped her breast over her pajama tunic.

Alistair could hardly believe what was happening; it was like some unbelievable dream come true. He had mourned their love for five years, regretted everything that led him to break up with her in the first place, had all but given up hope that she would ever willingly return to his embrace, but here she was. Here she was. And kissing him like she was trying to make up for five years in one night. Truth be told, the way he kissed her back, he was sure that was what _he_ was doing. He wanted to see and feel and taste every inch of her at once, if only to be sure that it really was her and not some cruel illusion. _Please don't let this be a dream,_ he prayed, and hoped the Maker was listening.

He still wanted to apologize. He wanted to bring her a rose for every day he made her think he didn't want her. He wanted to kiss her for every tear he ever made her shed. A tightness and an ache was gathering in his pants. He could pick roses for her tomorrow; right now what he wanted was to take her to his bed.

Surana had a sweet spot in the tiny hollow just above the collarbone but below the neck. Alistair had discovered it quite by accident when they made camp outside the Brecilian Forest. He lowered his mouth there now and gently nipped at her collarbone with his teeth before pressing his lips into that hollow. The effect was instantaneous: the muscles in her arms spasmed, her knees went so weak that she couldn't hold up her own weight, and she let out a long, low moan of pleasure.

“Alistair if you don't get me out of these pants right now we're going to have a problem,” she threatened.

Victorious, Alistair picked her up and began carrying her toward his bedroom. “As you wish, my love,” he answered with his customary grin. Suddenly the words to tomorrow's speech became clear to him, but far from dropping everything to write them down, he committed them to memory. He had no fear whatsoever that he would forget them in the meantime. All he had to do to remember them was look at her. At the way she smiled at him now, as he had not seen her smile in years. The love of his life had returned to him, and his heart recognized hers once more. Finally, after five agonizing years, Alistair was quite certain: he knew now what it was she would like to hear.

 


End file.
